Stroke of Luck
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: AU: Monsters in the Mirror, #1. *Oliver Queen isn't Starling City's only-or even first-vigilante, but he is by far the nicest.* Another way Oliver and Felicity could have met, this time involving swords, some snark, and a whole lot of blood. A birthday present for my crazy friend The Pris. Complete.


**Title: Stroke of Luck  
Word Count: 7161**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Arrow. If I did, I'd be writing a _very_ different Season 3. And incorporating more dragons.

**Notes:** Happy birthday, Pris! :D Here's hoping it's a good one! :)

Since it's her birthday, I wanted to do something like she'd write, something a little harrowing, intense, and with a good, bittersweet sort of angst. I'm not sure if I succeeded or not (Pris, I'll let you be the judge), but I had fun with it. I'd love to hear what you all think about this crazy thing, but if you don't have the time, thank you so much for reading! :D

* * *

Oliver Queen stares up at the building in front of him, gripping his bow in a leather-clad hand. For months he's been doing this, taking down members of the List with a sense of accomplishment and clarity. Though the work is lonely, Oliver finds he's better off alone; coming home has been taxing for both him and his family over the last six months.

Shaking his head to clear it away from darker thoughts, he stares up at the Hunt Multi-National building, the one target he's taking down on Laurel's behalf. Adam Hunt is scum, and no one is doing a damn thing to stop him in his crime spree. He has judges in his back pocket and all the lawyers money can buy. A little non-profit service like the City Necessary Resource Initiative doesn't stand a chance, and they all know it. He's sure Laurel is good, but not _that_ good.

So, he does this one for her, even though she'll never know who the man under the green hood is. He's not going to endanger her like that, but he feels he owes her a few things after Sara died on _The Queen's Gambit_—especially since he was using Sara to cheat on Laurel. His former girlfriend still hates him, and he deserves it, but that doesn't mean he won't try to atone.

Even though he already knows he never will.

Adam Hunt is well-protected since Oliver's last visit to deliver the warning, staffing his building with practically every mercenary in the city. He doesn't know how he'll do it, but he has an arrow for every man there, and he doesn't miss. Most of the mercenaries, he notices, are positioned on the top floor, in and around Hunt's office, so Oliver decides to do something bold and daring.

He enters through the front door.

Really, it's the best way to go; he can let a few guards fire off shots, disperse the men to different floors and spread out his targets. The guards behind the desk go down with two tranquilizer darts guaranteed to make them sleep through a few hours. One of the mercenaries fires at Oliver, but an arrow dispatches him quickly. Three more fall on the stairs with green arrows protruding from their chests, and he steps over them on his way up the stairs.

He doesn't reach anything difficult until the upper floor, when the mercenaries start to overpower him by sheer numbers. He launches arrows at every man that appears, but it seems that two more men pop up for every one he drops. He must have miscounted his arrows, because he's starting to run low—with the exception of the one that is meant only for Hunt's servers on the top floor.

Suddenly, a new sound adds to the carnage: screaming. He's quick and efficient when he kills, using arrows through the heart to stop them when he fires. His targets don't scream—rarely do they even feel their ends meet them. Curious, he edges himself around a pillar, looking at the scene laid out in front of Hunt's office.

The first thing he notices is the blood. It's unmistakable, even in the dark offices, as it pools under the bodies in the carnage and mayhem. Several of the men have red gashes across their chests, and he sees more than one that seem to have appendages that have been cut off. Most of them are dead now, but a few men still move, and Oliver pities them. He may be a killer, but even he's not that cruel. But, then again, there's a reason why Starling's crime rate is half of what it was five years ago.

Part of Oliver had wondered if the monster would show up.

After a little research, Oliver had learned of the newest form of justice in Starling City—doled out by the mysterious man they called Deathstroke, aptly named for the weaponry he uses so efficiently. Only a few pictures have made their way to the papers, all too grainy to be of any identifying use. The police are baffled; they only know that he uses two swords with ease, plunging them into his victims without mercy. Apparently he likes to slaughter mercenary fighters, especially those moving weapons illegally.

There's a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye, and Oliver turns slightly to see him bent over a body in the corner, using one of his sabers as leverage to rise to his feet. He draws up to full height, then sheaths his swords before turning. It's only then that Oliver gets the very first look at Deathstroke, the terror of Starling City.

He reveals not an inch of flesh from head to toe, wearing black leather pants, jacket, and gloves. But it's the mask that gives Oliver pause; it covers his face and head completely, removing all shape and ability to ascertain anything about him. It's split into halves down the line of his nose, one black, one gold. And it's almost unnatural, as if Oliver is staring at the remains of a ghost.

Then Oliver realizes that they've all been wrong about Deathstroke all this time. The height is wrong, the boots are wrong, and that black leather hugs against skin far too well to hide very feminine curves. There's no mistaking her as female, but he doubts anyone else has survived an encounter with Deathstroke long enough to pass that information on.

Her head tilts to the side as she notices him, and Oliver knows this won't end well for him—Deathstroke isn't known for her mercy or restraint. With no intention of surviving five years of hell so that he could die by her hand, Oliver fires the arrow meant for Hunt's server at her. It's the last one he has other than his highly-specialized grappling arrows that would be useless in this situation. All it takes is a glance for him to know that the shot is good.

She's better.

Deathstroke is quick, faster than he expected. As soon as she sees the arrow speeding toward her, she draws her sabers, slicing the tip off the arrow just before it reaches her. It falls in midair, completely useless to either one of them. She twists the white, round device at her hip before saying, "I'm don't want to fight you." The device is a modulator of some sort; she speaks in five tones at once, making it impossible for him to distinguish a single one from the others.

Her voice, however, does give him his first hint about her: she speaks English with a generic American accent. "We're both after the same thing: Adam Hunt's weapons and money." Her head tilts to the side. "I'm not opposed to sharing the credit."

He frowns at her. "I work alone," he says flatly, under his own modulator. It makes the pitch unnaturally deep and sinister, but he still has to admit there's something about Deathstroke that makes her more intimidating than him. Maybe it's the collection of bodies on the floor in around him, all mutilated somehow.

"You're out of arrows," she counters. She lets the swords fall to her sides, her knees apart in a threatening fight stance, despite her small stature. "And if you're not with me, then you're my enemy." She makes a slicing motion in front of her chest with the swords. "And I don't think I have to tell you that I have no mercy for my enemies."

"I don't need arrows," he retorts, though they both know he's lying through his teeth. The bow is the one advantage he'd have against her, and he doubts he could win a fight with her using his fists—not with those swords that she clearly handles well.

Her breath leaves her in a huff. "And I don't need a guy running around in a green suit to help me do my job," she answers with attitude, "but it would certainly make it easier. The police are going to be after us. Hunt and his other gun-running goons are going to be after us. I see no reason why we should fight each other, too." She sheaths one sword behind her back, but it doesn't mean that Oliver is complacent about it. "Just for tonight, though—one show only, no encores."

Though she makes a good argument, Oliver still has doubts and qualms about it. "I don't know if I can trust you," he says flatly. Perhaps he's spent too many years alone on that island, learning archery from Yao Fei and Shado, learning that no one can be trusted. Ever since Sara's brief betrayal that resulted in Yao Fei's death, Oliver has decided that he's far safer if he trusts only himself, expects lies and misdirection from everyone else.

Deathstroke is already shaking her head by the time he finishes, the mask nearly appearing to hang in the air in a way that makes it seem detached from the rest of her. "I don't want your trust. I want your arrows and to know you'll have my back in a fight." The mask tilts sideways. "Can I count on that or not?"

Seeing little choice in the matter, Oliver nods once, and she sheaths the swords in response. Something about the way she moves reminds him of a panther stalking its prey, and she stops in the middle of the carnage to pull an arrow out of one of the men Oliver felled earlier, inspecting the arrowhead. Then she offers it back to him. "Hunt may have backup coming," she informs him in a flat voice. "You're going to need every arrow you can get." Something changes in her tone. "It's not exactly sanitary, but I don't think anyone will complain about it."

It takes Oliver a beat before he realizes that it's a joke, a special kind of morbid humor used to cope with the fact that she sees the worst of humanity every night. He offers a slow chuckle in response, taking the arrow from her hand and dropping it in his quiver. "I planned on hacking Hunt's servers, but I used my electronic arrow on you," he informs her as he pulls another arrow out of another victim.

"I don't need your arrows," she assures him with a quiet confidence that he decides he likes about her. The other sword is sheathed in a fluid motion, as if she's so in tune with her weaponry that it's part of her. Then she marches over to Hunt's desk and sits down at the chair as if she owns it, her fingers starting to fly across the keyboard. "If anyone comes, I need you to spot me."

A black box appears on the screen, and Deathstroke types a string of nonsense into it that Oliver can't even begin to comprehend. Apparently, though, it makes sense to both her and the computer because it causes a series of bank records to appear on the screen. She drains them quickly and efficiently with a few keystrokes, and he realizes that she has an extensive background in computer science. Oliver files that away for later, deciding that a female computer technician in a very male-dominated field might help him locate her identity, to look into her later.

When she finishes draining Hunt's accounts, Deathstroke slides her chair over so that Oliver can more clearly see the screen. "I've transferred all of Hunt's funds to the people he stole from—plus a few of the extra millions to various charities that want to help the impoverished or restore the Glades." The mask turns toward him, and, at the close proximity, he can see her eyes. With the darkness, he can't determine their color, but he can tell that they're hardened, cold, and completely distant from the world.

He knows that because he sees it in his own eyes when he looks in the mirror.

"Looks good," Oliver says finally, and Deathstroke nods before finalizing the transfers. Then she rises to her feet in a fluid motion, and at close range, he notices for the first time how large the height difference is between them. Because of the swords and the mask, her presence seems to dominate the room, but now it's impossible not to notice that he has to look down to meet her eyes.

A door slams in the distance, and Deathstroke responds to the noise the same way Oliver does: head swiveling in the direction of the movement while reaching for the swords at her back. The growling voice of Detective Lance is unmistakable, and Deathstroke mutters, "It's the police." Then she turns to him. "I don't tangle with the cops, so I'll be taking my leave now."

With a grim smile, Oliver pulls a grappling arrow from his quiver. "I have an exit strategy," he assures her. She practically radiates hesitance, but he supposes that prison—or possibly a death sentence—is more unappetizing than a twenty-story drop. They aren't exactly going to let her go after the trail of bodies she's left in her wake.

Suddenly the police converge in on them, and, in the chaos, gunshots ring out in an attempt to shoot to kill. "Go now!" Deathstroke calls to him, and he isn't interested in leaving her to the jump without direction; she doesn't seem to have done this before. Instead, he pulls her around the waist, pressing her into him.

If she has issue with his grip on her, she doesn't protest. Instead, she throws an arm around his neck, holding on to him as she realizes his plan to jump through the glass on the floor. He pushes his shoulder through the window, drawing the bow and firing the grappling arrow in midair. Somehow the shot manages to pierce the concrete building, and they land on the ground with unsteady feet.

"I owe you one," Deathstroke states in a tone that dares him to argue, and Oliver doesn't find that he's brave enough to challenge her on this. He has no doubt that she would have found a way to evade the police without engaging them, but he provided the easiest and most direct course of action.

At the same time he works up the courage to correct her, she places a hand to her left shoulder and pulls it back with glistening gloves.

Before she can do anything more than stare at the blood on her fingers, Deathstroke crumples, the wet spot on her jacket growing at an alarming rate. Oliver catches her before she hits the ground, then pulls her unconscious body into his arms. With the blood already soaking through her jacket, he knows she isn't going to wake up anytime soon without help. Bullets and hospitals aren't a good combination if she's trying to avoid jail, so there are really only two options for Oliver: he can try to save her or he can leave her to die on the street. With that in mind, he starts carrying her toward the Ducati he used as transportation.

Oliver has watched enough people die for one lifetime.

* * *

By some miracle, she's still breathing by the time he reaches the old Queen steel factory, even if the two of them are covered in her blood. He's already unbuckling her swords from across her chest by the time he enters his base of operations, careful not to let his hands linger in places they have no business lingering. They drop to the floor unceremoniously as he steps over them, and his quiver joins them when he releases the buckle.

After he lays her across the table, Oliver pulls his hood back with one hand, removing his gloves before grabbing a towel and applying pressure with the other. Slowly he realizes that he'll have to monitor her breathing, which means the full face mask impairs him. Though he's reticent to invade her privacy, he knows it's necessary.

Oliver has no idea to expect from this woman—from the vigilante he thought was a man only hours ago. But, when he slides the mask backward, he's first met by wildly fuchsia lips and a pale complexion. Then he notes that the flat braid in her hair is loose, with strands of blonde hair, wet with perspiration, sticking to the back of her neck. Despite his hurry, the Queen scion can't help but study her with a mixture of surprise, respect, and amusement.

He can safely say that the last thing he expected was a pretty blonde.

With lips pursed together in a thin line, Oliver carefully unzips the black leather jacket, hoping that she wore something underneath it. As luck would have it, she did: a black tank top with thin straps peeks out, giving him the courage to pull the zipper down the rest of the way. He somehow manages to slide the jacket off in the floor without releasing pressure on her injury, and then he slides the straps of her tank top and bra down her shoulder.

The real work starts then, and he inspects the bleeding while he slides the toolbox full of medical equipment over with his foot. Still applying pressure, Oliver takes a pack of suture from the toolbox, curling it over his fingers so that he can use it to tie off the offending vein. His medical knowledge is limited to "stop the bleeding," but some of the tricks he's learned in the last five years apply to her wound.

After he closes the major vein that's pooling blood down her chest, across the table, and onto the floor, he pulls a pair of forceps from the cabinet to remove the bullet. He doesn't get that far, though, because an unfamiliar ringtone sings out in the quiet, the singer of the metal band vowing that he won't let someone down.

Frantically, Oliver pulls her the smartphone from the discarded jacket to find the screen displaying "Red" in large letters. The touchscreen confuses him for a moment, makes it difficult for him to unlock it, but after a swipe of his thumb, the green button appears. He presses it and then the speaker button, leaving the phone on the table with a smear of blood across the screen. "Are you one of Deathstroke's friends?" Oliver demands. "Don't hang up—she's here and she's hurt."

The voice on the other end plays at being tough, but he sounds ludicrously young. "How do I know you're not the one who hurt her?" the boy demands, though his voice quavers slightly. Oliver admires the courage in the response, and he has to admit that the kid has a certain spunk about him.

"Because I'm the reason she isn't dead," Oliver answers flatly. "If I was the one who tried to kill her, I wouldn't be the one patching her up." He sighs in frustration as he pulls out the bullet in her shoulder, his patience wearing thin in the panic. "I'm in the basement of the Queen steel factory building. Enter from the front, stairwell on your right. If you want to help your friend, you'll be here." With that, he presses the red button on the screen to terminate the call, even as the other man protests.

Oliver continues to patch the wound, packing gauze into the space until the bleeding slows. Then, for good measure, he slides the heart monitor over, slowly attaching leads below the wound and on the opposite side of her chest. He hesitates with the lead that attaches to the right side of her abdomen, but then slides the corner of her shirt up only as much as necessary to attach the sensor.

He draws up short when he's met by the tattoo worn by the local weapons cartel: a small phoenix curled into a circle.

Though it does help to solve part of the mystery that is the woman before him, it raises more questions than it answers. The way she targets weapons dealers makes more sense, but her reasons behind it don't. Is she a mole in their organization, or a former employee disillusioned with the life? Does she have a vendetta against her old bosses, or is she using her skills to avenge someone's misfortune? Either way, it seems that she's smart, efficient, and capable—three things that gun runners would want on their side.

No doubt he could probably call Anatoli and ask him—the Bratva distributes weapons from a wide variety of sellers, and he makes it a habit to keep up with them. But that seems like an invasion of her privacy, a privacy he's already violated enough by simply trying to keep her alive. If she wants him to know more, she'll have to tell him herself, he decides. He sighs, knowing that means he won't receive an answer to his questions anytime soon, and attaches the lead in his hand. Checking it once to ensure her heart rate is within limits, the monitor helpfully informs him that it's a little high, possibly due to the levels of adrenaline in her system.

Oliver picks up the suture lying on the table again, this time using the needle at the end to start closing the wound, the steady beeping of the heart monitor creating a rhythm in the background. It's almost comforting to hear it, so much so that he almost misses the sound of footsteps on the metal flooring above. Immediately, he grabs his bow from the floor at his feet, taking three arrows that slid out of the quiver when it fell. He nocks one, holding the others in his right hand for easy access should there be more intruders.

Knowing that it could be Deathstroke's contact, Oliver carefully fixes on the one staircase that leads into his base, stepping in front of the woman lying on the table in an act of protection that feels foreign to him after so many years alone. He waits on high alert, cautious and patient as the intruder's footsteps grow louder in another rhythm not dissimilar to the heart monitor's.

Finally Oliver can see worn and grimy sneakers on the stairwell, and he fixes the bow on their path. A red hoodie comes into view, followed by a teenager with dark hair. "You know this looks like a B-list slasher flick in here, right?" he asks into the space, the voice unmistakable as the one Oliver heard only moments ago on the phone. It causes him to lower the bow at the same time the kid realizes its presence, his eyes going wide. "You're…" he breathes, but then he stops abruptly, shaking his head. "I can't do the whole billionaire-turned-psychotic-killing-machine thing right now—that's my friend." He pokes his head to look around Oliver, wincing immediately. "No offense, but I hope some of that blood is yours. Otherwise this doesn't look good."

"It doesn't look good," Oliver answers bluntly, knowing the truth is much better in this situation. "She hasn't stopped breathing, though, and that's a good sign." He leans the bow against the table, turning back to Deathstroke with a grave frown, absently noticing that the kid looks a little green. He can't resist a dig at him, remembering his own first experience with a bad wound. "You didn't play Operation as a kid?"

If possible, Roy turns a more visible shade of green. "Of course I did," he retorts, snapping at Oliver as the sickly tinge is quickly replaced by an angry heat. "It just never made me want to yodel groceries." He can't help but look up from Deathstroke's injury at that, and Oliver can't help but feel a little sympathy.

"If you're going to throw up, use this." Sighing, Oliver shoves the large trash can in the kid's direction, suddenly wishing that everyone was trained for this sort of experience at birth. "But if you can stand it, I could use some help here."

The kid moves to the other side of the table, watching Oliver work with a wary frown. He moves the trash can close to him, but after a deep breath, he answers, "Tell me what I need to do." It causes Oliver's mouth to twitch up at one corner; the bravery the teenager displays reminds him a little of himself a few years ago. He had wanted to be brave, he once told Shado, and her reply had been nothing less than expected: _Bravery is only a kind word for foolishness, Oliver_.

Despite her warnings, Oliver finds himself very fond of that variation of stupiditiy.

He points to the pack of gauze on top of the toolbox. "I'm going to need that," he answers, "and plenty of it. I've managed to tie off the vein that was gushing blood and pull out the bullet, but I need to sew this up before anything else happens." He looks up at the kid, who pulls gauze from the paper wrapper with shaking fingers. "You have a name?"

"Roy," the teenager answers as he passes the gauze to Oliver. "Roy Harper." He swallows so hard that Oliver can hear it. "And she's… her name is Felicity Smoak. I think she'd want you to know that after all you've done for her."

Oliver looks up at that, the defeat clear in the other man's eyes. "Hey," he calls gently, focusing Roy's attention on him before continuing, "she's not dead yet, Roy." It pulls a nod from the boy in the red hoodie, and Oliver turns back to his work, taking the gauze from his assistant's hand. Dabbing at the wound a few times beforehand so that he can see the area better, Oliver slides the needle through both sides of the wound, pulling them together with a tight stitch.

Roy groans, and the vigilante looks up to find his head turned away from the scene. "This is probably a bad time to mention I hate needles," he offers in explanation of his behavior. Oliver doesn't answer that one, instead focusing on his stitches, trying to make them as uniform as the neat ones Shado had put into the scar in his right shoulder, back when the wound was still fresh from where she shot him. He hasn't had as much training—hadn't been to medical school like she had—but it's a level of expertise he still finds himself striving for.

The room is quiet for a long moment, but then Roy breaks the silence. It's almost as though the words burn out of him as he comments to Oliver, "She wasn't always like this, you know." He says it quietly, as though caught in his own memories as he holds out another square of gauze for Oliver. "Her family lived next door to us. She worked computer consulting for a company a few years ago—one that her dad worked for. Something happened while she was in Japan—her dad was killed and there was a hostage thing. The shipping company was moving illegal weapons, and the company backed out of a deal. The cartel took everyone on site as prisoner—it took seven months to find them." He takes a shaky breath. "Felicity was the only one who lived. She just… came back like this." Roy stops speaking for so long that Oliver glances upward at him, only to find the teenager studying him with intense eyes. "But, then, you know about that."

Deciding that he hates the all-too-familiar tone in Roy's voice and his uncanny ability to peg him so fast, Oliver decides to focus on things that don't hit so close to home as he sews the final stitch. "I saw her fight—she's one of the best I've ever seen with a blade. She didn't get that way as someone's hostage for seven months." He isn't doubting the story told to him, but he also knows that the truth isn't always as simple as it appears to the casual observer.

The conversation is interrupted when the heart monitor rushes into a long, sustained note, and dread claws at Oliver when he realizes what it means. Ignoring Roy's frantic protests, he directs the younger man. "I need one of the epinephrine syringes—third drawer." While he does as asked of him, Oliver moves instead to the defibrillator on the tray off to the side, turning it on. The machine is ancient, but, by some miracle, it manages to switch on. He leaves it there, standing by in case it's needed.

Roy hands him one of the small syringes, and Oliver immediately stabs it into the outside of her thigh, ignoring the sound that the younger man makes in response to the use of the needle. He gives it a moment, checking for a pulse with his fingers against her throat, but still nothing. He knows they're in a closing window; the longer her brain goes without oxygen, the more likely it is that she won't be able to wake up again.

He's about to reach for the paddles when she sits up, gasping with a wild panic in her eyes.

Instinctively, Oliver reaches for her, steadying her on the table. "You're okay," he says quietly to her. "The bullet hit just above your heart, and you passed out." Her bleary eyes focus on the green of his suit, and she reaches out to him. It's only then that he realizes her hands are shaking—either from the epinephrine he injected into her system or the memory of being shot.

A fresh sheen of moisture coats her forehead, but she seems determined to stay upright despite the effort it takes to do so. She groans as her other hand lifts, but it turns into an exclamation of pain before she pulls her hand back. "What the hell did you do to me?" she manages between clenched teeth, gripping Oliver's forearm so tightly that he's sure he'll have bruises later. "My head feels like you hit me with a hammer."

He can't stop a chuckle from leaving him before answering, "Your heart stopped beating. We gave you a dose of adrenaline." He hesitates, studying her features for the first time since she gained consciousness. There's a lightness to her features that wasn't apparent under the mask, but her eyes still carry some of the same coldness that he noticed before. "You were lucky," he adds finally, but not with a sense of gratitude or chiding that usually accompanies the words. It's a statement of fact, an observation made by someone who has had the same luck on his side before.

Felicity nods at the observation, but then stops mid-motion. "If lucky feels like a splitting headache," she answers dryly, "I'd say I was _very_ lucky." She peels off one of the black gloves still on her hands before extending it to Oliver, exposing lime green fingernails that add to the lovely mystery of Felicity Smoak. "Thank you, Mr. Queen—I think I owe you _two_ now."

He actually chuckles at that, surprised by the sudden display of unnecessary formality. "Mr. Queen was my father," he corrects. While he has no desire to hold her to favors or the system of repayment, he can tell by the steely determination in her eyes that she won't accept a refusal. "I'll hold you to that, Ms. Smoak."

"Felicity," she states, the correction automatic, as though she doesn't even realize she's said it. She studies the floor with interest, as though wondering if she can stand, and Oliver peels the adhesive pads from the sensors from her shoulders. It causes her to study the suture in her shoulder, and he doesn't miss the way her breath hitches for a moment when he pulls away the third lead from her side, tugging the hem of her shirt down as he does so—whether in surprise or something else he shouldn't even consider.

Using her good arm as leverage, she pushes off from the table. She stumbles when her feet touch the floor, her expression hazy with fatigue or dizziness. Without thinking, Oliver pulls her into his arms, only to realize how that action could be construed—especially with the horrible scenarios she probably lived through in those seven months she was kidnapped.

Her hands use his biceps as leverage to brace herself, with the sudden surge forward. Oliver expects her to pull away immediately, but he's discovering that Felicity Smoak isn't particularly shy. Instead, her index finger traces a circle on his arm. "I can stitch that up for you, if you want—putting in stitches one-handed is a pain." He looks down in confusion, and, sure enough, there's a dark hole in his arm that he didn't even feel.

Apparently Felicity isn't the only one suffering from the aftereffects of adrenaline.

Before he can find words within him to respond to the offer, she pulls away, turning back toward Roy. Her hand falls on his shoulder. "Thanks for showing up, Harper," Felicity comments in a dry tone. "I always wondered if you were the kind of friend that would give a damn if I died."

Roy shrugs, and Oliver notes the smile that turns up his mouth for a brief second. "If you were going to bite the bullet, I wanted your swords," he answers simply, and Oliver recognizes it as gallows humor. "I can't do anything with them, but they'd look pretty badass on my wall."

It causes a short, sharp bark of laughter to leave her, and then she throws her good arm around him. Roy groans at the contact, making a show of pulling away. The show of affection between the two reminds Oliver of the relationship he had with Thea so many years ago, but that time has long since passed because of the island and the implications of that. It's a reminder that, just maybe, he could have that again, when the wounds aren't so raw.

"Could you get the car ready?" she asks him with a pointed look, and Roy rolls his eyes, clearly understanding that Felicity wants time to speak to Oliver privately. "I'll be up in a minute, but I'd like to pull this bullet out of Oliver before I go."

Roy doesn't say anything to her, then turns to Oliver with a short, jerky nod of his head. "Weird meeting you," he comments shortly. Felicity levels a dark look at the teenager, and Roy sighs deeply. "You could have let Felicity bleed out on the street, but you didn't. Thanks for not being an asshole." Before Oliver can think of a way to respond, Roy charges up the stairs.

He's no sooner out of the base than Felicity is motioning to the table. Oliver gets the message, hoisting himself up on the gurney. She comes to stand in front of him, picking up the gauze and new suture from the toolbox. "I've given up apologizing for Roy," she states casually, as though it's a conversation they could have anywhere, not just in the remnants of their vigilante gear in a hidden base. "He grew up across the street from me, so we were friends. His dad died when he was eight and his mother has been…" She hesitates. "Out of the picture for some time. So he's been living with us for the past decade or so. He's practically my brother."

In a careful movement that lacks hesitance, Felicity wraps her fingers around the zipper on his jacket, sliding it down in a slow motion that Oliver finds agonizing for reasons he shouldn't even consider. He barely knows this woman, and he certainly shouldn't be imagining reasons for her touch that don't make sense to his own mind.

Perhaps, he thinks, it's because he's been alone for so long. For the past three years, Oliver had been alone, with Shado and Yao Fei dying on that island. He had forgotten what it was to care, to meet someone who understand the desperation that comes from lone survival, the last of their kind. But he finds that Felicity is a particular brand of hope—a dangerous one that makes him reckless and impulsive.

For the first time since the island, he feels as though someone understands.

He removes his jacket so that she doesn't have another excuse to touch him, and, in a very rare turn of events, she doesn't flinch at the exposed scars or tattoos that mar his torso. Usually, he feels exposed like this—as though proclaiming to the world just how damaged he is after the island—but he only feels relaxed with her. It's a feeling that's becoming uncomfortably familiar, one that could become his undoing if given the opportunity.

As she works on his bicep, Felicity starts a casual conversation, not breaking in her dialogue to give him a chance to answer. It's as though she's talking to herself for her own purposes and doesn't expect—or want—his responses. "Roy was all I had after I came back from Japan. My mother was there, but she wanted me to be the person I was before. She didn't understand that a part of me _did_ die over there. She didn't understand my grief. My dad died in the assault when they took us, so I had seven months to grieve, to remember he was gone." She chuckles humorlessly as she dabs at the wound with alcohol. "I knew that I wouldn't live through it, that I'd never see my mother or Roy again." She swallows hard, the words sticking in her throat.

Oliver says them so she won't have to. "There were days where you _wanted_ to die," he offers quietly. "There were nights you begged every deity that would listen for death, but it never came. Until, finally, you realized that you were on your own. If you were going to die, you had to be the one who made it happen. But some part of you…" He offers a hollow laugh to match hers. "Some part of you wasn't finished fighting yet, and you weren't going to give anyone the satisfaction."

She takes the explanation with a simple nod, otherwise continuing as if she hadn't heard him. "I argued with them, defied them until I had more bruises than healthy skin." Her fingers falter for a moment, stopping in the middle of stitching the bullet wound. "I kept fighting, and finally one of them decided to help me. His name was Slade. He taught me how to fight—to stand up for myself—and they killed him for it." She meets his eyes with a cold gaze that explains the end of the story better than any sentence. _So I killed them_, it says, _and I'd do it again_.

Clearing her throat after a few moments of reluctance to speak, Felicity continues, "And when I came home, it was Roy who understood that I was different. Instead of trying to get the old me back, he just found a way to fit in with the person I am now." She looks up at him, stopping her work for a moment. "Letting someone in is the only thing that has made this bearable." Her expression is unfathomable. "You should let someone in, Oliver."

Finally the truth he discovered in Hunt's office earlier tonight bursts from him: "You're the only person I've met who could ever begin to understand, Felicity." A soft breath leaves her in surprise, and when her eyes flick from the wound to his, he knows she's reached the same conclusion.

"One show only," she reminds him. "No encores."

He shakes his head. "I'm not asking you to join me," he assures her. "I'm asking for someone who I can talk to when I can't talk to anyone else. Someone who understands what a crucible like this does to you, how it changes you."

"Of course," she answers immediately, knotting the end of the suture when she finishes. She answers so quickly that it seems like the easiest thing in the world, like they're two very ordinary people who decide they have common interests. The idea is ludicrous, as though they could have been partners or even friends in another life.

For a long moment, she studies him, and he's surprised when she cups his face with right hand, stroking his cheek with her thumb. He doesn't move, afraid that a sudden movement will startle her away, make her change her mind about whatever she's about to attempt. "You're not broken, you know," she whispers, and that was decidedly not what he expected. Her eyes are dark with something he doesn't understand. Louder, she continues, "I thought I was broken when I came back, and I needed someone to tell me that I wasn't, to make me believe it." The laugh that follows is empty. "No one has convinced me yet."

In perhaps the most honest declaration since his return from the island six months ago, Oliver simply looks at her and says, "You're not broken, Felicity. The _world_ is broken, and we're the only ones who noticed." He rises from the table, afraid he'll break the spell but unable to sit still anymore and let things fall where they may. "But that's why we're trying to fix it in our own ways."

Something causes her to shake her head with a smile, something he doesn't understand. She doesn't bother to explain it, instead reaching up to place her lips against his for a long moment that will always be too short. But Oliver doesn't push his luck, doesn't try to start something she clearly isn't looking for yet—that he's not quite ready for yet. Someday, perhaps, but not today.

Instead, he comments, "I'm not sure I deserved that." It's the truth; no way in hell is he anywhere close to deserving Felicity Smoak, neither now or before she became a survivor herself. He'd like to think he _could_ be worthy of it in the future, but today is not that day.

"You got lucky, then," she retorts, and then a flush crosses her cheekbones, and it takes a moment before he hears the innuendo she noticed immediately. "Not _got lucky_, but had exceptionally good luck." This side of Felicity that lacks confidence is new to Oliver, and it intrigues him so much that he can't bring himself to stop her. "Not that a kiss from me is particularly lucky—or that _I'm_ particularly lucky, but you just thought you didn't deserve it. So hopefully it's good luck." She takes a deep breath. "That's what I meant." She shakes her head with the slightest hint of a smile. "I'll program my number into your phone—if you need me, I'll be around. Whether I'm lucky or not."

Oliver only smiles, and he can't resist the idea of teasing her. "I hope I can get lucky again sometime, Felicity."

* * *

_Playlist:_

_"This City" - Patrick Stump feat. Lupe Fiasco_  
_"Dangerous" - Within Temptation feat. Howard Jones_  
_"Sick" - Evanescence_  
_"EP 7 Score - The Emerald Forest, Pt. 2" - Jeff Williams_  
_"Heaven Help Us" - My Chemical Romance_  
_"Let You Down" - Black Veil Brides (also Felicity's ringtone for Roy)_  
_"Tell Me Why" - Within Temptation_  
_"Erase This" - Evanescence_  
_"Worth a Thousand Words" - Mayday Parade_  
_"Goodbye Agony" - Black Veil Brides_  
_"Don't Let Me Be Lonely" - The Band Perry_


End file.
